The coyote cries in the crisp fresh air

With head lifted high to the sky.

The beaver is alert

To the tingling of earth

And the stirring where ice crusts lie—

For the sun’s golden fingers

Have plucked at the snow,

And the wintertime sleep of the land

Is breaking and lifting

With each longer day

In the warmth of the sun’s bright hand.

Illustrated by Ginger Brown